


Shall I Play For You

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [15]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she runs into the cute guy and his dog, she can believe it's an accident.</p><p>The second time is a coincidence.</p><p>But the third?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I Play For You

**Author's Note:**

> secret santa gift for captnbellamy on tumblr! happy christmas (:

The first time, Clarke can believe it's an accident. She's walking back from the Subway down the street, sandwiches in tow because she lost the game of shot-not.

The boy comes running up, hair messy and breathing heavy from running after his dog, the squirmy mutt that's currently trying to crawl its way into Clarke's lap and make a home there, sandwiches be damned.

"I'm so sorry," he says, pants really, from the running. His breaths make little puffs of clouds in the cold air. "She's a bit of a handful--"

"It's fine," Clarke waves him off, laughing as the dog tries to whine and lick her face at the same time, desperate for her attention, even though she's already got both arms curled around her wiggling body. "What's her name?"

"Vesta," he says, instantly flushing--and it might be because of the weather or the exercise, but. Clarke's willing to bet it's because of her. "She's my sister's."

"Your sister has good taste," she grins, and he smiles a little helplessly back. He's clearly not good at the whole picking-up-girls-via-dog thing, which seems strange. She'd sort of assumed all guys were instinctively good at that. _She's_ good at that, and she doesn't even have a dog.

He must know he's attractive, to some degree. No one who looks like that--all brown skin and freckles and dark hair, dark eyes, wire-rimmed glasses with the lenses filling up with snowflakes--can just _not know_. Usually that kind of bone structure comes with confidence, and Clarke's honestly expecting him to hit on her at least a little.

But instead he just offers one last shy smile, and because he doesn't have a leash with him, he scoops Vesta up in his arms, which. Well, it's hard to really tell, beneath the puffiness of his jacket, but the dog is some sort of Husky/Chocolate Lab mix, at least sixty pounds, and he just picked her up like it was _nothing_. She's just as delighted to be hugged by him as she was to be held by Clarke, licking his face and skewing his glasses with her tongue, her whole body wagging against him.

"Thanks again," he calls, and Clarke waves him off, watching him walk away until he turns the corner.

"Tell me I'm hot," Clarke demands, marching into the apartment.

"You're hot," Raven says from the couch, not bothering to look up from the weird Rubik's Cube with the periodic table on the squares, which she's been taking apart for two days.

"Did someone say you aren't?" Wells asks with a frown, walking in from the kitchen. He's still wearing the pajama set that makes him look like a Christmas tree, which he's been wearing every day since Christmas Break started, and he stopped having to dress up for school. He's carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, and sets the second one down beside Raven, without a word.

Technically, Raven doesn't even live with them, but things have been awkward between her and Wick ever since they drunkenly hooked up on Thanksgiving, so she's avoiding her roommate by basically moving in with Clarke and Wells. Obviously, they don't mind, but the apartment only has two bedrooms, and for the first few weeks, Wells was adamant that Raven should take his room and bed while he just slept on the couch, while Raven disagreed and it turned into a weird and sleepy game of Chicken, where Wells would stretch out on the couch before she could get there, and so Raven, not to be outdone, would just sprawl on the floor. Eventually, Clarke had enough of it, and brought home one of those luxury camping cots, from the local Gander Mountain, because passive aggression makes her head hurt.

"No," Clarke sighs, settling in to the couch beside Raven, leaning her head on the back. She doesn't really blame them for fighting over it; it's a _very_ comfortable sofa, no matter how awful the orange-pink pattern is. "But there was a hot guy with his cute dog, who didn't hit on me."

Raven looks over, unimpressed. "O-kay," she drawls. "You realize that could have been for any number of reasons, right?" She starts listing reasons on her fingers. "He might not be into girls, he might not be into anyone, he might have a girlfriend or boyfriend or something, he might just be a fucking nerd who doesn't know how to flirt with people."

"You're a fucking nerd who doesn't know how to flirt with people," Clarke says, fond, tossing the gross Frito’s sub in her lap, and Raven makes a noise of outrage.

"Hey, I'm awesome at flirting! I have like, a hundred percent success rate."

"That's because you don't flirt, you literally take your shirt off and stick your hand down their pants," Clarke says, dry, and across the room, Wells starts choking on his hot chocolate. Raven shoots a feral grin his way.

"I'm just efficient," she sniffs, and Clarke scoffs a little, but doesn't argue. Her mood's already better, and anyway, Raven's right.

"Repeat after me," Raven says, serious. " _I am hot, but no one is obligated to hit on me_." It's ridiculous enough that Clarke has to laugh, meanwhile Wells is looking for that Christmas special CSI episode, where the dead Santa turns out to be a drug mule or something. They watch it every year--Clarke because she likes to point out the medical inconsistencies, Raven because she likes to point out the ridiculous science, and Wells because he really like procedural shows.

"I am hot," Clarke agrees, settling in to watch. "You're right, I was being stupid. Besides, it's not like I'll ever see him again."

 

The second time it happens, she chalks it up to coincidence. After all, there's a pretty good chance they live in the same neighborhood, and the world can be really small when you're as introverted as she is. Mostly she just holes up in her studio to paint, and occasionally walks down the block to do laundry or grab a diet Pepsi at the gas station or something.

Clarke's just leaving the laundromat, has barely even stepped out the door into the gray slush on the sidewalk, when something warm and big and furry rams into her legs.

"Oof," she says, and just barely manages to keep hold of her laundry bucket--the bright green one that Raven stuck all her old Toshiba stickers to, until it looks like some weird kind of advertisement for a computer company. She technically has a gym bag for laundry days, but it's buried somewhere in the depths of her closet which she has not emptied out for the past seven months. And the apartment's only like four buildings away, so it's not like it's a struggle.

Well, not usually.

"I'm so--" the boy starts, huffing out of breath, and then takes one look at her, eyes wide. "Holy shit," he says, and Clarke laughs, mostly to distract herself from checking him out. He's wearing one of those classy knit sweaters from Old Navy, and it's really working for her. "I'm _very_ sorry," he says, earnest. "More than usual, I swear."

Clarke laughs, readjusting the bucket on her hip so she can give Vesta's fat, furry belly the attention it deserves. "It's seriously not a problem--the opposite of a problem, really. Getting to cuddle a cute dog _twice_? Sign me up."

He grins, reaching down to clip a leash to Vesta's collar.

"Prepared, this time," Clarke teases, and he flushes.

"Better safe than sorry," he shrugs, and she sees the exact moment he notices her laundry bucket and, more specifically, the laundry that's inside.

Clarke always washes her delicates last, because she's a classy lady, and also because after years of having the washing machines eat her expensive date bras, she decided to give in and just wash them separately. But it also means that they dry last, and end up on top of the pile of clothes, when she's done.

He snaps his eyes up to the sky and then away, then back to hers like he's hoping she won't notice, and clears his throat a little. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to run away, like last time, and Clarke means to let him go, she really does, but.

She's competitive, okay? And she's wearing the top with the low neckline, which makes her boobs look fucking out of this world, and he hasn't even checked them out once. She _knows_ it's irrational, knows Raven is right, knows there could be any number of valid reasons that she should respect, but.

She still wants to win this, whatever it is. She wants to win the meet-cute.

"So, it's weird that I know your dog's name and not yours," she says, not at all subtle. He looks amused at least, which is a start.

"Bellamy," he says, and the sound of it fits him, somehow. "It's not that weird," he offers, as she gives Vesta's ears one last scratch. "Everyone likes her better. She's really cute, and she knows it."

Clarke grins, and he digs out his keys, the universal code for _I'm leaving_. "I'm Clarke," she says, even though he didn't ask. "And for what it's worth, her owner's pretty cute too."

Bellamy drops his keys with a curse, and Clarke turns around to march home, head high with her victory.

Wells is there, in a different pajama set that makes him look like that ridiculous talking snowman from _Frozen_ , and Clarke flops beside him on the couch. He's watching some made-for-TV Hallmark movie, about a little girl with cancer having Christmas in the fall.

Clarke's a little relieved Wells is here and not Raven; she loves Raven, and appreciates her sarcasm and cynicism--mostly because it mirrors her own. But Wells is a big fan of things like romance and Christmas miracles. He's her go-to guy for serendipitous meetings on the street.

"You want to talk about it?" Wells asks, glancing over at her from the corner of his eye--because of _course_ he can tell something's up. He can always tell.

"Not much to talk about," Clarke shrugs, stealing some of the blue corn Pop chips from the bag in his lap. Wells is a big fan of Katy Perry. "I ran into the dog guy again."

"Are you still upset that he didn't hit on you?" he asks, only sounding half as teasing as he could have been, because Wells is a good person.

"Actually, no," Clarke says, and he looks a little proud. So of course she has to ruin it; she can't have him raising his expectations of her. "But I am a little disappointed that he didn't stare at my boobs."

"Right," Wells says, flat. Wells firmly believes that looking anywhere below a girl's gaze while they're speaking is gross, and would never do it. That's why Clarke only goes to him for romance--she goes to Raven about sex.

 Almost as if she's summoned her, Raven bursts into the room, freshly oil-stained from work and wearing the tired scowl that her job always leaves her with--she loves the work, but she hates the people, and Clarke and Wells haven't managed to convince her to quit, yet.

Wells jumps up immediately and fusses over her, helping her take her brace off so she can stretch her bad leg out on the couch, fetching her some of the cheap brandy that she brought with her when she moved in.

Raven waits until Wells leaves to pick up dinner from the Thai place down the road, because he's somehow formed a bond with all the workers there, and likes to ask how they're doing in person, before whirling on Clarke.

"Alright," she barks, eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

The Hallmark movie has ended by now, and an old rerun of _Doctor Who_ plays in the background. Clarke blinks at her innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

"Bullshit," Raven snorts, and then kicks her in the side with her good leg.

"Ow," Clarke hisses, glaring at her. "I ran into the dog-walking guy, again."

Raven eyes her for a moment. "And?"

"And nothing," Clarke shrugs. "We talked, I pet his dog, he blushed when he saw my underwear."

"He saw your underwear?"

"It was laundry day," she explains, and Raven cackles.

"O-kay," Raven drawls, sipping the last of her brandy before glaring at her empty glass like it has personally offended her. "Well, I'm going on record as saying I am suspicious of the dog guy," she declares, which isn't really all that surprising. Raven's suspicious of everybody. "Because you have questionable taste in men," she adds, and Clarke gapes.

"I do not--the only man I've ever even dated was Finn!"

"And he was questionable," Raven points out.

"You dated him too!"

"That's how I know he was questionable."

Clarke glowers at her, because she knows she can't win this argument; Raven's right, Finn was a dick, and mostly Clarke tends to date women.

"Whatever," she says, which is universal code for _you're right and I'm not happy about it_. Raven looks smug, like the asshole she is. "It's not like I'm going to date him, anyway. I'll probably never even see him again."

"I've heard that before," Raven sing-songs, and switches to the Discovery Channel, so they can watch the Myth Busters blow up some cars.

 

The third time, Clarke thinks maybe she's just very lucky. Or unlucky, depending.

She sees Vesta before the dog sees her, and watches as she pads along down the sidewalk, leash trailing behind her with no one on the other end. She's wearing some sort of elf hat strapped to her head, and it jingles with each step she takes. Clarke whistles a little--she's always been the worst at whistling, sounding more like a teakettle than anything else, but. It works, and Vesta looks up, and then prances over, digging her nose into Clarke's thigh.

"Hey, girl," Clarke grins, picking up the leash, just in case. She scratches behind her ears, careful to not dislodge the hat, and Vesta whines. "Where's your owner, hm?"

"Oh, thank god," Bellamy says, rounding the corner, and Clarke glances up at him with a grin.

"You're not the best at dog walking, are you?"

"Maybe she just really likes you," Bellamy sniffs, defensive. His glasses are sitting crooked on his nose, and he's wearing a black pea coat with a small dusting of snow on the shoulders. The snow is so fine that Clarke can't even feel it falling, but her hair's getting wet as the snowflakes melt in it.

"Maybe," Clarke agrees, flushing a little. She's hoping he'll just assume it's from the cold. She glances back down at the dog, who's now plopped on her foot; she's heavy and warm, and Clarke's toes are going numb. "So what's with the hat?"

Bellamy makes a face. "It's for a Christmas pageant."

Clarke grins so wide her face hurts, because--a Christmas pageant, seriously. "Is she the mascot, or something?"

He shakes his head. "One of the contestants," he admits. "It's a dog Christmas pageant."

"Oh my god." When Clarke's finished doubling over, and wiping the tears from her eyes, she straightens up to face him. Bellamy seems less than amused. "You actually entered your dog into a _dog Christmas pageant_?"

"Hardly," he scoffs. "She's still technically my sister's, so Octavia entered her in."

"A dog Christmas pageant," Clarke shakes her head a little, trying to wrap her brain around the concept. She's imagining a lot of Border Collies in shepherd's cloaks. Maybe a Great Dane reindeer. "That is something I have to see."

Bellamy glances at her from the corner of his eye. "You could," he offers, slow. "If you wanted. I've got an extra ticket, because as it turns out, not a lot of people want to spend their Friday night at a Christmas pageant filled with dogs."

"Then they're missing out," Clarke says, and he grins. There's a pink in his cheeks that she's pretty sure the cold didn't put there, and it makes her insides feel warm.

"Great," he says, and he actually sounds relieved about it. Like he'd been nervous, or thought she'd say no. Clarke's starting to think he may actually be the most inept at flirting of all time. "It's tomorrow, at the Methodist church on Sunset Ave. I can, uh, text you?"

"Smooth," she teases, handing over her phone. "You're just trying to get my number."

"You've caught me," he grins, but she thinks it might be true. He hands it back, and she sees he's sent a text to an unknown number, with nothing but the dog bone emoji as its message.

"Try not to lose her before tomorrow," she warns, and he makes a face at her.

Raven's got her feet propped up on Wells's lap on the sofa, when Clarke gets in. They're watching _Love Actually_ , which is Wells's favorite, and Raven's least favorite except for the Emma Thompson bits. Wells must have bribed her with breakfast crepes or something, to get her to watch the whole thing.

"What's up, babe?" Raven asks, and Clarke flops down on the couch beside them.

"I have a date with the dog guy."

Raven only stops laughing when Clarke throws a pillow at her face.

 

_The pageant starts in an hour, here's the address. Meet you there?_

Clarke fights back the initial wave of disappointment; she'd sort of thought he'd pick her up. She could open the door looking nice in her classiest dress, and he'd be able to glimpse the inside of her apartment, perfectly decorated by Wells who collects and consults HGTV magazines like it's his job, and she could offer him a bit of the expensive brandy Raven won't drink, and he'd be charmed by it all.

 _There's always next time_ , she tells herself, and texts a quick Ok! to Bellamy before finishing up on her hair.

Clarke's never actually been in the Methodist church on Sunset. Wells goes to the Baptist one down the street, because he likes the singing, and Raven goes to the Spanish service at Saint Elizabeth's on Christmas and Easter and Ash Wednesday, if she doesn't forget. But Clarke was never raised religious, and she never had much interest in it, so she's never actually gone.

The church is exactly as they are on TV; small and clean-looking, with pews and a podium at the very front, and nice windows, and some sort of small organ built into the wall. There's a little stage, with a dozen dogs of all different breeds and sizes, tongues lolling out of their mouths and little costumes falling off each time they shake their heads. For the most part, they all seem very well-behaved. Vesta is near the side, and she keeps whipping her head around, like she's looking for someone.

Her gaze lands on Clarke and she barks. Clarke laughs.

Bellamy finds her a moment later, looking warm and inviting in a white button down shirt. "Hi," he grins, and takes her coat without a word, eyes skimming over her politely.

She lets him lead her to their seats, in a pew off to the side, apart from the rest of the crowd. She's the last one in on the bench, so she presses up against him, just enough so their thighs brush. There's a slit in the side of her dress, which might be like ninety percent of why she wore it, that falls open so the skin of her leg shows. Bellamy's hand clenches a little in his lap, and she bites back a grin.

Just before the show starts, as people are starting to get antsy and the last stragglers shuffle in, trying to grab open seats, Bellamy leans in to whisper in her ear. "That's Octavia," he tips his head towards an angry-looking teenager standing by the stage, with the rest of the dog owners. "My sister."

She's brown-haired and pretty, with shoulders set back for war. Clarke feels a sudden flash of sympathy for everyone around her, should her dog not win the pageant.

"Does Vesta actually behave for her?" Clarke teases, and he glares at her.

"You just make her excitable," he grumbles, and she slips her hand into his, careful, in case he wants to pull away. But he just folds their fingers together, and looks back at her. "You seem to have that effect."

"Yeah," she agrees, and she suddenly wishes the pageant was over, so she could drag him up to her room.

But then the lights dim and the music starts up-- _Who Let the Dogs Out_ , but with a weird, festive twist--so she just leans her head on his shoulder to watch. She can wait for an hour.

Vesta _does_ behave for Octavia, and her little hat doesn't fall off once, but first place goes to the Shiba Inu carrying a little toy drum. Octavia is clearly outraged about it, but she doesn't outright maul anyone, so. And it's hard to be mad about a different dog winning. They're dogs; they all deserve to win.

Bellamy walks Clarke to her apartment. It's not snowing anymore, but it's still cold, and Clarke starts to shiver almost immediately, her jacket not doing much to stop the wind. Bellamy seems to notice and shrugs out of his pea coat without a word, draping it over her shoulders.

"You'll freeze," she protests, even as she snuggles into the warmth. It smells like him and she hates how much she's into it.

"It's fine, seriously. I live like two blocks away."

She asks after his sister and he talks about gaining custody of her just two years ago, about raising an angry, grieving teenager all on his own, about getting Vesta, hoping she might make them a family. She tells him about her dad, to even the playing field. About how she and her mom have trouble seeing each other, because they miss him too much. He says his best friend is a bouncer named Miller, who strips on the side, and she tells him about Wells and Raven.

They stop just outside her building's front door. Clarke lives on the fourth floor, and considers asking him to come up, but she can see the flickering light of the TV through her living room window, which means Raven and Wells are still up, and--Raven, at the very least--would ask a lot of very invasive questions.

So instead she just smiles up at him brightly, hoping he'll get the message and ask her out for coffee, or something. He hasn't let go of her hand since the pageant, not even when he introduced her to his sister, or when they gave Vesta a congratulatory belly rub.

"Tonight was fun," she says, prompting. "Thanks for inviting me."

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. "Thanks for coming." The conversation grows stilted--but he's still not letting go of her hand.

Clarke falters a little. "Okay, well--" she hears him grumble something, to himself. _Fuck it_ , or something, and then his hands are on her neck, cradling her jawbone, pulling her in.

The kiss is softer than she's expecting, like he's trying to hold back. Like he's still trying to convince himself that this is a good idea. Clarke tries to convince him too--pushing back, moving her mouth against his, letting him know she wants it. Letting him know she wants _more_.

But he stays soft, and mostly chaste, and pulls back with an unsure smile. "Goodnight, Clarke."

"Night," she says, a little dazed, and he stands outside watching, until she's safely indoors.

"Hey, lovebird," Raven coos from the couch, even though she has her head on Wells's lap.

"How'd your date go?" Wells asks, and Clarke frowns, sliding back against the door until the lock clicks. She's still wearing Bellamy's coat, but if her friends have noticed, they don't say.

"I'm not sure," she admits. She doesn't want to let it get to her, but--she's not really used to not being wanted. She's so _sure_ Bellamy likes her, but. What if she's wrong? What if he only invited her to be nice, only kissed her because he knew she wanted him to? The whole thing makes her head hurt.

"Do you need me to kill him?" Raven offers, not bothering to sit up. "I know a guy."

Wells glances down at her fondly. "What guys do you know?"

"Hitmen," she says, serious. "Mercenaries. That bald guy from those _Transporter_ movies."

"Jason Statham?"

"That's the one."

Wells scoffs. "You do not know Jason Statham."

They bicker over whether or not Raven knows Jason Statham, or ever worked as a mechanic on the _Transporter 2_ set, for a while, and Clarke's grateful for the distraction.

But she still can't stop thinking about the way his mouth felt on hers.

 

Clarke's painting when her phone goes off. It's GLaDOS, from Portal 2, as set by Raven, which means she's gotten a text.

She has to unlock the screen with her nose because her fingers still have wet paint on them, and sees the message is from Bellamy. It's an external image, and it takes her three tries to open up with her chin, but eventually she gets it.

It's a photo of Vesta, with a handwritten note by her paws, like all those Dog Shaming pictures she's seen on twitter.

The note says _My dad wrote a terrible poem asking you to go out with him, and taped it to my collar._

The GLaDOS tone chimes again, and another photo pops up. This time, Vesta looks like she's mid-lunge, face going blurry and half out of frame, and the note is different.

_But it got lost when I ran through Mrs. Henderson's hydrangeas._

Clarke grins, wiping her hands off as best she can on the thighs of her already stained jeans, and texts back _Tell your dad to come get his coat._

The little ellipses that means he's typing pops up, and then _I'm on my way_.

Clarke considers taking a quick shower, to scrub off the paint and maybe shave a little better, but if he only lives two blocks away, there's really not much point. So instead she washes the worst of the paint with some of Raven's heavy-duty mechanics soap, the kind she uses for grease, that feels like sand and smells like oranges. She almost changes her pants but doesn't get a chance to, before there's a knock at the door.

"Hey," she says, grinning when she sees how fucking _nervous_ he looks. His shoulders sag a little once he sees that she's smiling, and she pulls back so he can walk inside.

"No roommates?" he asks, glancing around as she shuts the door.

"They're on a coffee date they're pretending isn't really a coffee date," Clarke shrugs. "I'm like, fifty percent sure it's just a part of Wells's ploy to make Raven take his bed once and for all--and fifty percent sure it's because he wants to share it, with her."

"As long as he has a game plan," Bellamy says.

"Your sister?" she asks, just to make sure, and he grins a little, fond.

"Something about a _Harry Potter_ marathon with some friends. She basically threw me out of the house." He moves closer, and wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans before sliding a hand in her hair. She tips her head back to grin at him, and he looks so _focused_ she nearly laughs. But then he worries his lip a little, so she takes his hand to lead him over to the couch, to talk.

And if at some point, talking turns into making out, they're already on the couch for comfort and convenience. Clarke's just being practical.

"I don't really do this a lot," he admits, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Clarke curls up beside him, and he takes her weight effortlessly.

"I find that hard to believe," she teases, blatantly eyeing him so he flushes.

"Not--sex is easy, I know how to do that. But I've never actually _dated_. Outside of, you know, high school, which was just--asking a girl to prom and holding hands in the halls, or whatever."

"Because of your sister?" she guesses, and he nods, and she knows she should be feeling sympathetic or something, but. She doesn't actually think he wants her to feel bad for him, and anyway, she's too busy being happy that he apparently wants to date her, and is worried about fucking it up.

"I figured, you liked the dog," he says, and Clarke can't swallow her grin.

"Oh my god--were you using Vesta to hit on me?"

Bellamy flushes, which is basically a _yes_. "It was an accident, the first time," he grumbles, and she laughs.

"I can't believe you had a dog-flirting _strategy_ ," she says, and he tugs her half into his lap, still a little unsure, so she slides in the rest of the way, herself.

"It worked, didn't it?" he grins, smug, and leans up to press his mouth against her jaw.

"Yeah it did," she agrees, folding her hands through his hair like she's wanted to since that first day. It's as soft as she thought it'd be. "You're doing a good job so far," she adds, and he wraps his arms around her. "At the whole dating thing."

He makes a noncommittal noise, running a trail of dry kisses down her neck, and Clarke angles her head for him.

"But if you need any--" she whines a little when he bites her shoulder. "Pointers, or anything. I can teach you."

Bellamy pulls back, amused, and she goes immediately for the hem of his sweater, tossing it behind the couch. "Okay, miss dating expert--what's your first tip?"

Clarke runs her hands down his stomach and watches his eyes go dark. "Dating tip number one; everything's better on a bed."

"I told you, I know how to do sex," he laughs, but when she climbs off his lap, he follows her down the hall anyway.

"Yeah," she tosses a grin back over her shoulder, as she leads him to her room. "But dating sex is better." Then she takes off her shirt, too. In the spirit of equality.

"Okay," he says, hoarse, reaching for her. "I believe you. What's tip number two?"

"I don't know if you're ready for that one yet," she teases, and he presses her down on the bed, kissing her until her lips feel chapped and her toes curl, kissing and kissing her until she whines.

He pulls back looking as dazed as she feels, and slides a hand down to pop the button of her jeans. He presses a kiss to her stomach, and she laughs when his scruff tickles her skin.

"I'm a quick learner," he promises, glancing up, and she believes him.

 

The fourth time Vesta runs into Clarke, it's because she's just walked into the Blake's apartment, and Bellamy's right behind her, shooing the dog away.

"It's because my sister spoiled her as a puppy," he swears, and Clarke grins, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as he takes off his coat.

"Sure, _Octavia's_ the one who lets her up on the couch, and feeds her scraps from the table." She raises an eyebrow to let him know she's not fooled--she's spent a fair amount of time with the younger Blake by now, and she knows that she's essentially a very small General.

"I don't know what you're trying to insinuate," he sniffs, and starts unpacking the groceries so he can get started on dinner. He makes them dinner at least three times a week, because he likes to cook, and because he knows otherwise, Octavia would just live on Taco Bell and those little strawberry pocky sticks.

Clarke leans against the counter to watch him start on the vegetables. Every time he has to reach around her for a condiment or a different paring knife, he leans in to brush a kiss against her hair, or rubs her hip. He's a fan of casual affection, apparently, and she has no idea why he was so convinced he wouldn't make a good boyfriend. He is the boyfriendiest of all time.

Vesta whines from the kitchen doorway because she knows she's not allowed into the room--even though Bellamy probably breaks that rule, too. He's really kind of a sucker.

Clarke moves over to stand beside him, poking around his arm to watch as he works. "Can I help?"

"Sure," he says, passing her the cheese grater. "It's about time you started to pull your own weight."

She sticks her tongue out, right as Vesta finally just rebels and marches in to stand on Bellamy's other side, whining up at him until he caves and tosses her a bit of the chicken.

Vesta snaps it up and licks her mouth before licking Bellamy's hand clean, too, and then butting against his leg with a low grumble, like a purr. Like she's letting him know she loves him.

 _Me too, Vesta_ , Clarke thinks. _Me too_.

 


End file.
